


Dreaming of Touch

by pherryt



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Cuddling, Dreams, Happy Ending, Jealous!Steve, M/M, Protective!Steve, Shovel Talk, Sort Of, bed sharing, braiding, deaf!Clint, hurt!cint, implied nat/steve, post winter soldier, teammates, touch starvation, tower fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: When Clint wakes up to find the Winter Soldier cuddling him in his sleep, Clint's almost positive he's gone crazy.
Relationships: Winterhawk
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450903
Comments: 57
Kudos: 445
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	Dreaming of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Touch Starvation – my New Clint bingo  
Shovel talk from Steve– Winterhawk bingo
> 
> i had a dream the other night that i decided to use for this. i focused, of course, on the one part of the dream and then altered the landscape of the rest around Clint - and it was supposed to be short and it just... wouldn't end... and now, somehow, I'm over 9k words. 
> 
> ....
> 
> i keep thinking i've forgotten some tags.

It was the dream that opened his eyes.

It was a fucking weird ass dream too, as a matter of fact.

There’d been this plane, in the process of crashing which, okay, par for course in Clint’s life. As an international spy and now Avenger, dangerous situations that most civilians wouldn’t ever see in their lifetime had become something of a normal happenstance for him.

But of course, in the dream, everyone’s reaction to the plane crashing was… not what it would have been. Everybody was driving down a field to keep ahead of the plane instead of, y’know, actually doing something about it, like at least half the team could have. Then the cars were gone and then they were suddenly on foot and Clint was chanting ‘_don’t flip, don’t flip, don’t flip’_ because the plane had a giant ass propeller on the top (but not the way a helicopter did) which… why?

But that was the way dreams went. Things didn’t make sense, and _in_ the dream, Clint didn’t question it. Instead, he ran with the rest, ducking inside of… of something that turned out to be a large room, albeit a crowded one, as if that would somehow protect them from a gigantic as plane barreling straight for them.

And somehow, Clint found himself in the back corner of this room, laying on the ground – which was grass, because why not? – and someone else was curled around him, the big spoon to his little spoon.

And this was where the dream turned… odd. Because he actually dreamed… of sleeping? Of finding a contented restfulness so full, snuggling into the warmth of the person behind him, that Clint just didn’t want to move.

The plane was forgotten.

The danger was forgotten and he just dreamed of… being held.

A hand had slipped over to curl around his hip, and it was the only thing keeping him from falling asleep completely in the dream, the thumb of that hand pushing down, pushing deep, painfully, but somehow not in a way that made him afraid, just slightly uncomfortable, like when he sat on his legs too long and turned his extremities into pins and needles.

So, he shifted his legs, stretched them out, his sleep fogged brain _inside _the dream thinking that the hand, the finger, would ease up, would catch the hint, but Clint didn’t dare say a word, afraid that whoever it was behind him would stop touching him.

That whoever it was would pull away, the embrace would end, and he would be cold and lonely all over again.

He stretched again and finally the hand shifted and curled around his stomach, wrapping more firmly around Clint, pulling him deeper, closer.

And Clint drifted.

His body was heavy, content, unmovable. His brain was floating, his breath a happy sigh, his eyelids weighed down by pure, unadulterated bliss.

And then there was danger again, pulling him away, the arms and presence (Bucky, who Clint had been getting to know in the tower, drawn to him in a way Clint knew Bucky didn’t understand – yet - and had been coming to like so far, so of course it had been Bucky that Clint’s dreamself had claimed) abruptly gone as if they’d never been.

The danger was chasing him and two others – known by Clint in that vague-ish way of dreams, with no real identities he could pin down - down a road, behind a building, machine gun fire going. Clint felt like he was slogging in slow motion, limping, unable to move, to get away from the danger. He had no weapons, no backup, just a fear of being shot.

Somehow, despite the long straightaway Clint was stuck on…

Somehow, despite how slowly he was moving…

None of that gunfire touched him.

The others disappeared, like so many in his life had before, and he ran on. Clint struggled to move faster, to get ahead enough that he could give his pursuer the slip, but he knew it wasn’t working. Still, he ducked into the first doorway he found, tried to close it behind him, tried to lock it, but the door was busted in, the faceless goon with the gun aiming down at him –

A shot rang through the room, and he knew with a certainty he had been hit and the pain would bloom any second now -

And Clint woke with a jerk, with a harsh breath he couldn’t hear, panic rising in his throat, a fine tremble running through his limbs –

But there was an arm around his waist, a breath against his neck, a vibration that tickled his skin that spoke of someone talking.

Clint froze.

What the fuck was going on? Was he still dreaming? Lord, he hoped not – except, if he wasn’t dreaming, then who the _fuck_ was wrapped around him like a goddamn octopus?

The arm around his middle shifted, rubbing at his stomach soothingly through his t-shirt and _oh, thank god,_ he was actually dressed. Clint’s eyes glanced down at the hand and almost choked.

It was silver.

There was only one explanation for that.

Bucky fucking Barnes was in his bed, spooning him.

How the _fuck _had that happened?

Clint didn’t remember getting drunk, or injured enough to lose consciousness or need any sort of help getting back to his floor. And this was definitely his room. So how and why was Barnes in his bed?

Despite the question, the confusion, Clint’s eyelids drooped. He felt warm and safe and altogether, too fucking comfortable to even want to move. The leadenness of sleep had overtaken his limbs and even though he _knew _he should get up, _knew _he should demand answers… he didn’t want to. He wanted _this,_ here, now. He liked how this felt and he would take as much of it as he could, while he could.

Bucky was sure to freak out later, as he usually shied away from people touching him, Clint had noticed, where Clint couldn’t get _enough _of touching people – because they just didn’t, generally.

He thought it might have something to do with being an assassin, and while that might have been a part of it, sure, Clint had noticed the amount of touch he _did _get had drastically plummeted since New York unless it was necessary for the mission.

Which was cold, so damn cold and meaningless.

And this… it felt good. It felt _so_ good, it must have bled through into his dream, he realized. The epiphany, while mindbogglingly profound, couldn’t fight off the exhaustion or how comfortable he felt like this, and Clint’s eyelids fluttered closed.

Before he could have even counted to three, Clint had relaxed in Bucky’s arms so thoroughly that Clint had fallen back into a deep, satisfying sleep. 

* * *

When he woke the second time, he was_ sure_ it had all been a dream, because there was no sign of Bucky _anywhere._

But damned if Clint didn’t feel more rested, weird dreams or no, then he had in a long time.

When he made it to the common area, freshly showered, he beelined for the coffee pot, passing Bucky on the way. Clint had pulled down his coffee mug and poured the first cup, leaning back against the counter as he cradled that life sustaining juice, before he realized something.

As he’d passed Bucky, he’d… well, Bucky hadn’t recoiled. They hadn’t touched, but he hadn’t recoiled either. Clint studied him over the lip of his mug, his eyes half lidded so it wouldn’t appear he was staring – he was a _spy _after all – but couldn’t tell anything. Bucky was quiet, his own mug before him, but his hair hung in his face as he kept his head bent forward, making it impossible for Clint to read him.

Well, except for the line of his shoulders and the color of his grip. Bucky was… less tense than he normally seemed, his grip wasn’t white knuckled, the mug wasn’t creaking dangerously.

Still, he didn’t say a word and Clint wasn’t sure what to say.

How do you ask the ex-Winter Soldier, still recovering Bucky Barnes, if he was sneaking into your bed at night?

So, he didn’t.

It wasn’t like he’d minded, anyway, after he got over the initial shock of it. If it wasn’t just a dream. Clint could have been projecting. He liked Bucky, and it killed him to see Bucky yearn for touch and shy away from it at the same time, but Clint respected his wishes even while looking for a way he could help.

He knew what it was like.

So if it _wasn’t _just a dream, then, they’d both be benefiting from this. Why bring it up and make things awkward?

* * *

It definitely wasn’t a dream. Maybe. Almost certainly not.

Okay, Clint still wasn’t sure. He kept waffling about that. Still, data gathering was second nature to Clint and these were the facts (whether real or not):

It happened randomly. Sometimes Clint woke up and Barnes was there, and sometimes he wasn’t. But eventually, a pattern started emerging.

If Bucky had a particularly trying day – trying meaning people touching him despite his wishes, having an episode _or _a flashback (or both), Steve badgering him too much and following him around the tower, or a therapy session – then Clint could count on Bucky sneaking into his room to take a quiet, unspoken solace.

And occasionally, when Clint was having a really bad nightmare, when his vision was washed in blue and he hid in his rooms, under his covers, shaking for hours on end, a body would slip under the blankets and just hold him till his breathing eased, the shaking stopped, his vision returned to normal and Clint could relax again.

They still never spoke about it.

What did they need to say that they weren’t already saying?

* * *

Nat came back from her mission and, of course, Clint had been overjoyed. She was his best friend, after all. His partner, his family. But then he started noticing Nat throwing strange looks his way. That wasn’t unusual, but then the looks upgraded to include Bucky too and he started to worry that she’d speak up and break the delicate balance they held between them.

Thankfully, she said not a word. She just sat beside him, leaning up against him in that casual way she had that he could never pull off. He’d missed that. Nat had not once shied away from him after Loki. She always offered him something. The press of her leg against his on movie nights. A brush over his shoulder or his side as she passed him on her way to anywhere. Tucking her toes under him when they shared the couch.

It grounded him and, normally, he missed it like crazy. But now that he had Barnes in his bed every night, it was more a comforting familiarity then a desperate need to feel not alone in his skin anymore.

She noticed that too. Because of course she did.

Of course, that’s when it all stopped. Just after Clint had not only gotten used to it, to the new routine, but looked forward to it.

No warning, just… Bucky never showed. Not that night, nor the next, nor the one after that. And suddenly, Nat’s touches weren’t enough, Clint wasn’t sleeping and he was positive he’d done _something _to make Bucky stop, though for the life of him, he couldn’t think of it.

Then again, what if…

What if it _had_ been a dream, a hallucination, a way to cope with Natasha gone? Clint swallowed back the lump in his throat, shoved back the cold blankets and stumbled out of his room, towards the common area. He wasn’t going to sleep like this, so why bother trying?

He’d thought he was getting better, but he’d actually regressed, hadn’t he? If he was hallucinating…

Maybe Loki had broken his mind after all.

Maybe it was _more _than nightmares and PTSD.

What if he’d left a seed behind in Clint’s head?

The thought left his blood cold. It wasn’t like they had any previous experience with dealing with brainwashing from a literal God and his toys. The only others who’d been affected and were still alive… well, last Clint had heard, Selvig hadn’t _adjusted_ to life after Loki all that well. Mad theories and running around naked… who knew what else…

Was that what was laying in store for Clint?

When the coffee was brewed, Clint hesitated, then took the whole pot with him to the roof. Nobody else was awake anyway, and his mind was too churned up for him to even _want _to sleep. So, the whole pot it was.

Stark’s new roof was a mass of different levels – like the landing pad, the letters spelling out the team name, and an alcove just a little higher than both of those that gave Clint a 360-degree view of the city. Which was, of course, where he was headed. It was a cool autumn night, not too cold, and he let the sounds of New York City wash over him as he drank straight from the pot.

Dawn was breaking over the city when Clint finally climbed back down, empty pot in hand. He dropped it off in the common area – thankfully, still empty – before heading for the range, his mind still unsettled, if not even more worked up as the thoughts whirled around and around in his head, unresolved.

He spent hours there without seeing a single soul, just trying to regain his equilibrium, to calm his mind, before he finally set sore fingers to rest, put away his bow and headed back upstairs for breakfast.

As he wandered in, Clint wondered if it was his imagination or if Bucky was avoiding looking at Clint? And was Steve glaring at him? He didn’t say a word, as he worked around the kitchen, making food for himself and Bucky, no offer to include Clint, and Clint recognized the passive aggressive anger but not the cause.

Having Steve angry at him almost made him stumble. Steve and Nat had been the first ones to trust him after… _after._

Whatever was going on, no one else seemed to be treating Clint differently. As they came in, Sam greeted Clint with a smile, Tony with a bird joke. Standard stuff, really. Bruce shuffled in, yawning, and ignoring everyone, the others moving out of his way, but before coffee he was worse than Clint, so nothing new there.

Still, the vibe of the room was strangely unsettling. Or maybe it was his lack of sleep and his uneasy thoughts all night. Suddenly needing to be out of there, Clint hurriedly poured himself a bowl of cereal, a fresh mug of coffee and took it back to his floor, the bowl precariously balanced on sore fingers.

* * *

Clint didn’t see Nat that day until she appeared beside him at dinner.

As was usual, though there was a large table against the wall, nobody used it. Instead, a spread was laid out on top of it and people came through at their leisure, filled their plates and then scattered about the common area – in front of the tv, or at the counter, eating in small groups or by themselves.

Sometimes Tony ordered out, sometimes one or more of the tower residents cooked. It all depended on the day and how beat everyone was from various missions.

Nobody except Nat had been out on any in the past couple days so it looked like Steve had cooked, because whenever Steve cooked, he liked to try new things (or old ones, as the case may be), even if they weren’t normally dishes that would be paired together.

Steve was still glaring at him, and Bucky was off in a corner, his hair obscuring his face, a plate already on his lap. He sat well away from everyone else, despite Steve’s best efforts to get him a little closer.

Clint was seriously considering just leaving if Steve was going to glare at him all night before he approached the table and froze.

What kind of fresh hell was this?

Was… was every fucking thing on the table encased in different shades of _jello_?

Steve _knew _he hated jello.

What the fuck.

He scanned over the table a second time in case he’d missed something and saw nothing – _nothing – _that he could eat. Had Steve done this on purpose? First Bucky – but that could just have been Clint imagining things, but he didn’t think so, maybe? - now Steve…

A lump gathered in his throat as he tossed his plate back down to the table and turned, nearly knocking into Natasha.

Giving her a weak smile, Clint nodded at her and moved towards the kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards and the fridge, eventually settling on eggs and toast and more coffee. He refused to let whatever the fuck that was from Steve chase him out of the common area. He was an Avenger, a member of this team, and he had as much right as the rest of them to be here.

If Steve had a problem with Clint, then he could damn well say it to his face.

Schooling his own face, Clint cracked the eggs carefully, despite fuming. Natasha wrapped her arms around him, laying her forehead on his shoulders, and he relaxed minutely.

Maybe Steve had just forgotten. Wasn’t the jello some sort of weird thing from back then that was all the rage? It was probably some sort of nostalgic kick, or something, and Clint was just… collateral damage.

Right?

He wanted to believe that so bad, but he couldn’t quite do it. Still, Natasha being at his back kept him calm enough to finish cooking, adding extra bread and eggs to include her. She murmured her thanks as he handed her a plate with a large omelet, then returned to making his scrambled eggs with a dash of spice and ketchup. The two of them sat at the counter, facing the rest of the room as they ate, their ankles curled around each other, but otherwise not touching.

The tv was playing one of the movies needed to educate a couple of Super Soldiers in all the pop culture they’d missed out on, and Steve had finally coaxed Bucky to sit a little closer. Clint had to snort because Bucky didn’t seem to be a fan of the jello foods any more than Clint was. Bucky twisted at the sound and a strange expression came over his face as he stared at Clint and Nat.

Next thing Clint knew, Bucky had shoved to his feet, muttered something to Steve that Clint couldn’t pick up, then stalked out of the room.

Steve’s glare, if anything, had grown larger.

Clint still had no clue what was going on.

* * *

Things continued like that for over a week.

He wasn’t sleeping, Bucky was coming out to the common area less and less and Steve was _definitely _glaring at him and leaving him out of shit.

When they voted on the next movie for movie night, or where Tony would order dinner from next, Clint was somehow left without a say, and he didn’t think anybody but Nat had noticed, and even she’d given Steve a strange look before turning to look at Clint with a raised eyebrow. He shrugged, then shook his head, and she let it go.

When everyone took turns at Mario Kart, it fell to the others to give Clint a turn.

One day, when Clint went down to the range, he’d found Steve already there, and Steve had oh-so-politely asked him to leave because he and Bucky were using it and Bucky had had a bad morning and didn’t want people watching him. Clint had left, fuming, because it was a reasonable request – but he’d had a well established routine of hitting the range every day after lunch (no matter what else was going on, or how many other times he’d gone that day), and Clint found it suspicious that Steve and Bucky had chosen right _then _to decide to use it.

The other day, Steve had seen Clint heading for the elevator and didn’t hold the door. Whatever, he could have been in a rush. There might have been an emergency somewhere that needed Captain America but not the whole team.

(Right, maybe. Clint didn’t believe it for a second, not with everything else together slowly adding up).

Yesterday, Steve had taken the last of the coffee when Clint was getting his mug. At least he hadn’t poured it out, even though Clint _knew _that Steve hated the coffee and that it did absolutely shit with Steve’s metabolism. Which meant he’d done it on purpose, just so Clint would be inconvenienced, but it wouldn’t _look _that way to a casual observer.

It was driving Clint out of his skin. It was bad enough he thought he might _actually _be going crazy, but that Steve was treating him like this? Clint couldn’t take it anymore, so he finally decided to corner Steve and get some answer. After first checking with JARVIS that Steve was even there, Clint dropped by Steve’s floor to confront him.

He was surprised the door opened for him, but he quickly took advantage of it, stepping inside. Steve was sat at a table, surrounded by all sorts of paperwork. The kind of stuff Clint liked to avoid.

“Clint,” Steve said, a small frown on his face, before turning back to his work. “What do you want?”

“Are you mad at me?” Clint figured the best thing to do was come right out and ask. The blunt approach. If anyone could appreciate that, he thought Steve might.

“Why would you think that?” Steve asked, not even looking at Clint.

“That, for starters,” Clint said. “You being too ‘busy’ to even look me in the eye when we’re talking. And all the glaring you’ve been doing lately. All smiles till I walk into a room. Not to mention that for a team leader who’s so big on working together and team bonding, you’ve been excluding me from shit. If you’re mad at me, just have the fucking balls to tell me.”

Steve dropped his pen and his head rocked up and yeah, there it was, the fucking glare that seemed to be glued to Steve’s face whenever Clint got into his vicinity.

“Okay, you know what? I _am_ mad at you, Clint. I thought better of you than to toy with someone’s feelings! Bucky’s still recovering and he doesn’t need this shit right now. So why don’t you just stay away from him from now on, all right?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Clint gaped at Steve. Of all the things he’d expected, _this _was not the answer and it left him as much in the dark as before.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Clint. We both know you’re not as stupid as you pretend to be.”

“Dumb or not, you’re not making any sense, Steve. I haven’t done anything. Bucky’s been avoiding me since Nat got back. We barely spoke before that. So maybe get off your high horse before you accuse me of something, cause I haven’t done a goddamn thing. And I thought we were friends enough that –“ Clint stopped, took a breath and shook his head. “You know what, never mind. I’m gone.”

He turned around and headed for the elevator. He was too angry to stay here right now; he’d probably say something he’d regret.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Steve demanded.

“Don’t worry, _Cap_,” Clint said, a bit of his own anger and bitterness creeping into his voice, waving his hand over his head. “If the Avengers need me, I’ll be around but I need a break before one of us explodes, so I’m going for a walk – unless you plan to order me to stay, oh great leader?”

Steve froze and his face went blank. “No, that would be fine.”

He didn’t say another word as Clint left.

Clint wound up storming out of the tower and walking for _hours _before Nat found him, gave him a long look and sighed. She tucked her arm inside his and joined him.

“What’s going on, Yastreb?”

“Hell if I know,” Clint muttered. “Steve’s pissed at me for something. Seems to think I did something to Bucky but he wasn’t too clear on what that was.”

“Ah,” Natasha said. “And that’s why he’s been pissy with you? He _is _a tad overprotective of Barnes. Then again, I understand that sentiment.” She patted Clint’s arm and he chuckled sadly.

“Try not to hurt him,” Clint said. “I’ll be fine. Whatever it is, he’ll get over it and things will return to normal.”

Clint wasn’t so sure _he _could return to normal at this point. He felt a hundred times more exhausted than he had before, despite all the rest he’d gotten while Nat had been gone. It was like his body – now that it knew what it was like to _be _rested - was kicking up more of a fuss to make him take better care of himself.

If only he could turn off his brain so he could do that.

“If you’re sure,” Nat said. “Then I’ll leave things be. For now.”

* * *

It was movie night and Clint had collapsed on the couch next to Nat. He hadn’t even paid the slightest bit of attention to what it was, too tired to even care and as it droned on, he’d drooped until he’d fallen, head in her lap and legs curled up on the cushion. Her fingers carded through his hair, lightly scratching with sharp nails and he started to relax a little.

It was the best he’d felt in days and he curled a little closer to her. Heaviness drifted through his limbs and his eyes drifted shut. Voices talked around him as the movie played and he let it become background noise as he faded, nearly asleep, till one voice broke in a little louder than the others.

“Y’know, it’s funny, I could have sworn he’d been sleeping a little better. He wasn’t dropping off in odd corners and the amount of coffee he’d been streamlining had cut down by a lot. In fact, it cut down quite drastically, for Clint,” Tony said.

“What’s this?” Nat asked, her hand pausing. Clint stayed still, stayed quiet. They obviously thought he was sleeping. Maybe he could get a clue about what the hell was going on if no one was aware that he was still awake.

Clint was a spy. He was not above a little eavesdropping. Besides, he was right there. If they wanted to make sure he heard nothing, they wouldn’t have opened their mouths, right?

“Now that you mention it,” Sam cut in, “I think you’re right, Tony. While you were gone, Natasha, our resident archer seemed to be perkier, even without the copious, unhealthy amounts of coffee he normally drinks.”

Clint was going to resolutely ignore the reason for Sam’s observation. He still wasn’t sure he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing.

“That’s… strange,” Steve said slowly.

“Why is that, Steve?” Nat asked neutrally, her fingers resuming their movement across Clint’s scalp. He resisted the urge to arch into it or sigh with contentment.

“I just thought he’d sleep easier with you around,” Steve said.

“Sure, I’ve got his back and he’s got mine, if that’s what you mean,” Natasha said. “But you make it sound like there’s something… more to it than it is.”

“Wait, you aren’t together?”

Clint almost choked at Steve’s words and held it back by only the slimmest of margins. Tony and Sam didn’t even try, Clint was sure, as they started laughing. Oh, how Clint wished he could see the look on Steve’s face. He must look so damn confused, but Clint didn’t care. It served him right for just not asking.

Nat shifted her hand to the base of Clint’s neck and started rubbing into the tight muscles there. “No, why would you even think that? Clint’s the brother I never had. He’s family. Outside of this tower, we’re the only thing each other’s got.”

“But you’re so… touchy feely with each other,” Steve said.

“Hmm… you noticed that, did you?” Nat hummed. Her fingers dug in a little. She knew he wasn’t asleep. “Then have you _also _noticed that the team is all ‘touchy feely’ with everyone but the assassins in this little group? Touch starvation, Rogers. Might want to look it up.”

She made a show of waking Clint up and he went along with it - as exhausted as he was, it wasn’t that hard – and she dragged him off the common floor and sent him to bed, though she paused in the door.

“Do you need me to stay, Yastreb?”

He shook his head against hers as they leaned into each other, brushing her check with his knuckles briefly. “Nah, I’ll be all right. Thanks, Nat.”

* * *

Clint was sent on a mission the next day.

When he returned three days later, he didn’t even bother heading for his room. Still dressed in his gear, he beelined for the common area, hoping people were there. He slumped in, shoulders unknotting slightly when he saw the rest of the team there and the glare that had been so present in Steve was now absent.

Instead, he looked guilty.

Clint pushed the thought aside, dropping onto a stool next to Nat at the counter, leaning his bow against it and then bumping his shoulder into hers and staying there.

“You should go to bed, yastreb,” she murmured.

“Not yet. This first,” Clint sighed, edging a little closer and closing his eyes.

Nat didn’t push the issue, just pulling his head to rest against her shoulder. “Bad?”

He shuddered, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Nat just knew. She always did.

A gentle plunk hit the counter in front of him and he dragged his eyes open to find a very earnest and apologetic Bruce placing a mug there for him.

“It’s just tea. Natasha’s right, you should get some sleep. You look exhausted.” Bruce hovered for a second, uncertain.

“Thank you,” Clint said. Bruce slid it closer until Clint reached for it, their hands touching for a second before Bruce pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I don’t like being touched much these days and… I forget other people need to.” Bruce shrugged, stepping away, like that small touch was even too much for him.

“It’s okay,” Clint said.

When Bruce headed back towards the stove, Steve joined Nat and Clint at the counter, placing plates in front of both of them. Then he patted Clint on the shoulder with a “Welcome back,” startling Clint into sitting up straight and staring at Steve.

The shoulder pat was awkward and Steve grimaced, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I’ve never even… I didn’t even notice what I was doing, that I was excluding, well, both of you like that.”

Sam slid in on Nat’s other side, leaning past her to catch Clint’s eye. “General consensus seems to be, nobody wanted to intrude in your personable bubbles and startle you, because they were afraid of what your reflexes would do.”

“Fair enough,” Clint said, taking a sip of his tea. He closed his eyes and took it in. It wasn’t the same as coffee but it was good.

“And I’m sorry for what I said,” Steve continued, Clint’s eyes popping open to catch the sincerity in Steve’s gaze. “And for jumping to conclusions.”

“I still don’t know what you were mad about,” Clint said cautiously.

“I know. I’ll… figure it out.” Steve gave him another shoulder pat and walked away.

Clint stared after him, then looked around the whole room in confusion. What was going on? Had he stepped into the Twilight Zone or something? He turned to look at Nat and raised his eyebrows, mouthing, _What the fuck?_

She shifted, signing her response. _They’ve been like that since you left. I think they _all _looked up touch starved and now they feel guilty._

“Yo, birdbrain, you’re back!” Tony swung into the room, slapped Clint enthusiastically on his back as he skipped past him into the kitchen.

_Not too guilty, apparently,_ Clint signed back. Nat laughed lightly and shrugged.

_It’s Tony. What do you expect?_

Clint shrugged because, yeah, that was true. He dug into the food Steve had left him and felt his shoulders unknot a little more. There was only one thing missing now…

Where was Barnes?

* * *

After he finished eating, he let Nat drag him back to his floor and check him over. He was covered in bruises, a few scrapes, but he’d gotten off pretty light, all things considered. No stitches required, no broken bones. Not even a concussion.

It’d been a bad mission, but not _that _bad.

“All right, yastreb. _Try _to sleep at least,” she said, tucking him in.

He mumbled, taking out his aids, the world going blank as he did. He was exhausted enough that he did _actually _fall asleep, though he hadn’t much hopes for _staying asleep_.

Therefore, he was surprised to find that he’d slept a good 8 hours when he _did _wake up, a lingering warmth in his bed, a lingering scent in the air –

Was he imagining things again? Or had Bucky snuck back into his bed? Why now, after disappearing like that?

Should he say something this time? Corner him and ask what was going on - just to confirm that it wasn’t a hallucination? Or would confronting Barnes scare him off?

Not confronting Barnes had apparently scared him off before so, what was there to lose?

Clint still gave it a few days, getting used to the more hands on teammates he’d suddenly acquired, and making sure that the night time snuggling wasn’t just a one time thing.

Then it occurred to him that there was one way, at least, to check if it was real or a hallucination. He waited till he was alone on his own floor, but still looked around, listening for noises in the vents – it was the only way Barnes could be getting into his rooms if this was real – and called out.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

“I just want to uh… Could you tell me if I’ve um, had a nighttime visitor lately?”

“You mean Sergeant Barnes?” JARVIS asked.

Clint relaxed, letting out a relieved breath. It hadn’t been his imagination. He hadn’t been so goddamn lonely and touch starved that he’d created a fantasy of being held by one of the worlds scariest people. The warmth and comfort in Bucky’s arms had been _real_, and that filled Clint with a strange joy and sadness.

Because Bucky had to be just as touch starved as he and Nat. Worse, even, because Clint didn’t see even Steve reaching for him. Bucky always pulled away before he could be touched and people had respected that. Which, on the one hand, was good. It gave Bucky control over the situation but on the other hand, was bad.

Which must have been why Bucky was sneaking into Clint’s room to hold him. But what Clint couldn’t figure out was how that had started.

Why had he woken up that first time to find Bucky in his bed, wrapped around him?

He’d figured out why it continued, but that first time was a mystery.

* * *

Okay, this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

He wasn’t stalking Bucky, okay? He was just… trying to figure things out. But Bucky was an enigma, so that was harder than it looked.

Still… they kept running into each other in the common area, and Clint didn’t think it was his imagination anymore that Bucky seemed to stand closer to Clint than anyone else. That Clint was able to coax him to come closer during movie nights or game nights.

One time, him, Bucky and Nat all shared the same couch. Clint was braiding Nat’s hair while they watched a movie and Bucky’s eyes were on Clint and Nat more than they were on the movie. Clint pretended not to notice, but he couldn’t help but see as Bucky’s eyes followed Clint’s fingers as they moved.

Couldn’t help notice an aborted move of Bucky’s own hand towards the loose hair that normally curtained his face, the longing that was there.

It was like courting a cat, Clint realized. Letting it get closer by enticing it with the things it wanted, but pretending you didn’t know it was there, until one night, when Clint finished Nat’s hair, he just naturally turned and started on Bucky’s hair.

Bucky sat ramrod straight, eyes trained directly ahead, his hand gripping his knees but Clint counted it as a win that Bucky didn’t bolt.

When the movie was over, Steve turned and his mouth dropped open. Bucky’s face turned red and he leapt up from the couch, disappearing before anyone could say a word. Steve stared after him and then to Clint and Nat, emotion thick in his eyes.

Then he sprang a hug on them, pulling them both in tight at the same time. “Thank you,” he whispered. “He needs that too and he won’t let me give it to him. I don’t know why.”

When he let go, Clint shrugged. “Maybe you’re too close, too invested in it? And the three of us surprisingly have a lot in common.”

Steve looked at him thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you kinda do.”

* * *

Clint still hadn’t asked Bucky about the sleeping thing, and Bucky still hadn’t once _asked _for Clint to play with his hair, but both things continued without a single word.

There were plenty of _other _words going on, of course. Bucky was starting to open up and _talk _more with people, to join in the games, to join Clint on the range - either for good old mind cleansing target practice, a healthy dose of competition, or even Clint showing Bucky how to use a bow – and to take walks outside the tower.

Steve was beaming, Bucky was looking healthier, Clint was feeling a hell of a lot more rested than he could remember ever being in his adult life, the team were all being handsier with Clint and Nat then they’d used to be and – all in all – things were good.

So of course, there was an Avengers wide alert that wound up with Bucky and Clint scrambling around each other in Clint’s room. Clint woke to a jolt as Bucky threw himself from the now vibrating bed in a panic, opening his eyes to see the bright, flashing lights.

Clint winced and groaned. “Fuck,” he said, wiping a hand down his face, then reaching for his aids. “Message received, JARVIS,” he called up to the ceiling as he put them on. The flashing stopped, the bed stopped vibrating and from the way Bucky stopped wincing, the sound had also been cut off.

Clint stood, holding his hand out to help Bucky up.

Warily, Bucky took it.

“Sorry about that. Can’t hear anything so JARVIS has to improvise.”

“You uh, not gonna say anything?” Bucky asked as Clint dug out his uniform.

“’bout what? ‘bout this?” Clint pointed between them and jerked his thumb over at the bed. “I mean, sure, I’m a little confused how we got here, but… I like it,” Clint said with a blush, dragging his pants up over his boxers, only stumbling a little. “And I like you. And –“

The lights flashed in the room, a reminder to get his ass moving and Clint sighed, pulling his shirt over his head and grabbing his tac vest.

“Okay, maybe now’s not a good time to talk about it. Duty calls,” Clint said with a lopsided smile.

Bucky tilted his head. “Yeah, probably not.”

* * *

Next time Clint saw Bucky, it was from a hospital bed and Bucky looked paler than Clint’s sheets.

“Hey, baby,” Clint said with a slur. Awww, he must be on the good drugs. He watched Bucky’s eyes go wide and heard someone choking. Wait, what had he said? Awww, baby, noooo….

Blinking, Clint tried to raise himself up and winced, Bucky immediately coming to his aid.

“Easy there, doll,” Bucky said.

“How bad is it?” Clint sighed, letting Bucky help him adjust. The bed shifted under him as Nat raised it up a little.

“Broken leg, concussion, some stitches,” Nat’s voice floated over to him and Clint rolled his head, wincing at the stabbing pain that caused, to look at her.

“So I’m good?’

Bucky made a strangled sound. “Good? This is _good?”_

She ran a hand through Clint’s hair and his eyes closed at the soothing feel of it. “It’s Clint. It’s his normal.”

“Heeeeeey,” Clint protested weakly. But he didn’t bat her hand away, just relished in the touch.

“You’re grounded for at least two months, yastreb,” she said.

“Nah, gimme, like, 3 weeks, I’ll be good t’go,” Clint mumbled.

“Hell, no, doll, I’m going to sit on you if you try to walk on that leg before the docs say you’re okay,” Bucky blurted out, horror coating his voice.

“Aww, Buck, you _do _care,” Clint said, turning his head back to smile loopily at Bucky. Bucky blushed but refused to look away.

“I’ve… just had practice with stubborn patients, is all,” Bucky protested, Clint grinning widely.

Nat leaned over, left a kiss on his head and stepped back. “I’ll leave you two be,” she said, amusement coloring her voice. The door clicked shut behind her, but Clint barely noticed, just staring at Bucky who was staring back, the blush spreading.

Clint raised a shaky hand enough to reach for Bucky, pulling him closer. Bucky still looked a little like a deer caught in headlights, but he followed the pull with no complaint, till he was hitched up on the bed, Clint rolling into him as well as he could with his leg in a cast.

Wrapping his arm around Bucky, Clint mumbled into his shirt.

“No good, doll, didn’t understand a word you said.”

“Like it when y’call me doll,” Clint said, shifting his lips free.

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what you said,” Bucky said. His blush, if anything, had deepened.

“Hmm…. No, it wasn’t. But it’s still true.”

“You called me baby,” Bucky all but whispered.

“You don’t like it?” Clint pouted.

“I… I don’t know. What are we?”

“Men.” Clint giggled.

“Clint,” Bucky said warningly.

“No, I’m Clint, you’re Bucky.”

“God, it’s no use trying to talk to you while you’re on drugs,” Bucky complained.

“Good, then stop talking an’ lay down properly so we can cuddle. Like it when we cuddle. Y’make me feel safe,” Clint said.

“Yeah?” Bucky breathed.

“Yeah,” Clint said, catching Bucky’s eyes and squeezing his hand with his own. “Have since the first night I found you in m’bed. Thought I’d gone crazy though, cause why the _fuck _would you be there? I thought… I thought it was another symptom of…” his words trailed off as the exhaustion and the drugs pulled at him.

Bucky twisted, stretched out completely on the bed and rolled to face Clint, a hand coming up to cup Clint’s cheek, his thumb sliding back and forth. Clint hummed, tilting into the touch.

“A symptom of what?”

The question made him blink his eyes back open – when had he closed them? – his eyes meeting Bucky’s confused and concerned ones. What had Bucky asked? Why did he ask _– oh…_

Clint took a deep breath and his ribs ached. He really must be on the good drugs because his mouth opened and kept spilling shit he’d been holding inside for forever. “Of Loki, of his… of his stupid fucking scepter, when he took my mind away from me. I’m always afraid it’s not over, that I’ll wake up and not be me anymore.”

Beside him, Bucky shuddered, gently dropping their heads together and pressing close. “Jesus, I…I didn’t know that you...”

“Got mindfucked?” Even two years later, Clint might still be bitter. “Yeah, don’t exactly like talking about it.”

“Can’t blame ya,” Bucky said gently, his eyes sad. Not with pity but far too much understanding, because of course he’d been there, done that – could probably get a t-shirt at the drop of a hat if he so much as hinted to Tony that he wanted one.

“And then there you were, in my bed and I couldn’t figure out _why_ so of course I must have been hallucinating – “ Clint couldn’t breathe, suddenly, the hand he had draped over Bucky pulling tight as his fingers clenched. Even now, when he’d figured out that it wasn’t Loki, wasn’t his mind _breaking _apart, the thought still terrified him.

Because maybe this time it was okay, but what about next time?

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s’ voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry -”

“-and then you just _stopped_, and I wondered, what had I done wrong? So my mind circled back to it all having just been a massive fucking hallucination, cause, we didn’t exactly talk about it – but if it wasn’t, then I musta fucked up somehow an’-“ and why wouldn’t Clint’s mouth _stop?_

“I’m sorry,” Bucky repeated. “I don’t actually remember that first night. I woke up there, and I froze cause how the hell could I explain that? And you woke up but didn’t say anything, you just fell back asleep like it didn’t matter and it felt _good_ but I didn’t know _why _then, and then I just… kept coming back, and you kept not saying anything so I thought it was okay and then Natasha came back and I saw how you two were and_ I_ thought…”

Clint squeezed his arm. “Breathe, Bucky.”

Bucky took his own deep breath, shuddering against Clint again. “And I thought I’d been intruding where I wasn’t needed, that you’d just been too _good _to say anything to me. And it made me miserable to stay away –“

“Is _that _why Steve was so mad at me?”

“Yeah, I told him to mind his own fucking business, but that little punk never listened to me,” Bucky huffed out. Wetness hit Clint’s face and he suddenly realized Bucky was crying.

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Clint asked, alarmed. Or as alarmed as the drugs would allow him to get.

Bucky shook his head, burying his face in Clint’s neck and pulling himself closer. “I’m a selfish asshole,” Bucky whispered brokenly. Clint tried to break in but Bucky shook his head sharply. “No, I am. You tell me you’ve been fucked in the head and you know what I felt? Relief. Relief that someone _gets _it, that someone’s been there and knows what I’ve been through –“

“It was three days, Buck. What was done to me can’t really compare to –“

“Don’t,” Bucky choked. “Don’t belittle what was done to us, to you. We both had our minds violated and our choices taken away from us, forced to do horrible things.”

“But I didn’t even _fight _it,” Clint said, his voice a bare, harsh whisper, his eyes stinging now too.

“You were taken by magic, right? Kinda hard to fight magic,” Bucky breathed. “Doesn’t make it less terrible. And, being able to fight it… didn’t make things easier for me to deal with. Cause I broke, I fucking _broke.”_

“God, Buck, anyone woulda, what you went through? Anybody woulda,” Clint said, his heart breaking.

“I get it, but it’s hard. And I know you do too. In the end, you did some things you can’t forgive yourself for, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t you – any more than it wasn’t me – so you _get it_,” Bucky said. “You get how hard it is to move on from that, that you can’t just… and it’s fucking selfish cause I shouldn’t _want _anybody else to have to go through shit like that.”

Clint shifted his arm up, brushing Bucky’s hair out of his face, looking at the devastation in his eyes, the tremble of his lips before he pulled them in tight. Clint’s own chest was so tight it hurt, and the beeping in his ears was sure to bring a doc or two barreling through the doors, but he didn’t care, just focusing on Bucky.

“Look, neither of us can change the past. It sucked. Big time. No one can argue that,” Clint said, wiping at Bucky’s eyes as the stared at him in something like awe. He almost squirmed. He didn’t quite feel awe inducing but…

“But maybe we can turn that into a good thing? Look, by some quirk of fate, we’ve both had experiences that make it easier for us to relate to each other, which can only make it easier to talk about to someone. Don’t know about you, but my therapist couldn’t understand. Maybe we’ll always have nightmares, but, being relieved doesn’t make you an asshole, Bucky. If it does, then we’re both assholes, which just puts us on the same page. Again.” Clint grinned and Bucky chucked wetly. 

They drifted together for a while after that, Bucky slowly calming down and Clint able to ignore _most _of his aches and pains just by having Bucky hold him in his arms. He hadn’t been lying when he said Bucky made him feel safe, and somehow, it felt like a weight was lifted off his chest. They hadn’t really spoken of their… experiences… in depth or anything, but just having _spoken _of them, to someone who _did _get it, it helped.

Clint would have been happy enough to stay that way a while longer, but eventually, the silence was broken by more than the not so subtle beeping of the machines Clint was hooked up to.

“So, uh, are we, are we cuddle buddies, friends or something more?” Bucky asked, voice hesitant, his metal hand smoothing circles around Clint’s ribs, making him warm and sleepy – er, sleepier than he already was.

“Hmmm,” Clint nuzzled into Bucky and wondered if Bucky knew enough to take his aids out when he fell asleep. He assumed Nat had left them in for the usual post injury conversation, but he hated leaving them in too long. He spoke, his words slurring again with exhaustion. “Started as cuddle buddies. An’, if you haven' noticed, o’er the past few weeks we’ve definitely become friends.”

Clint paused; Bucky’s heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute under his ear, Clint picking it up more by the vibration of it, then the sound. “Course, s’always room for something more. No objections from me. And hey, I think Steve already gave me his version of the shovel talk.”

“Wait, what? When?” Bucky growled, hand freezing. “I'll kill him.”

Clint patted Bucky clumsily, drooping again. “Nah baby, it's fine. He was just worried ‘bout you. Ida done the same with Nat and she’d do worse for me if she thought I needed it.”

“Worse?” Bucky sounded worried and Clint cracked an eye open to blearily peer up at him. He only saw scruff. But it was soft scruff.

“Awww, don' be scared o’ Nat. She's a softie,” Clint slurred.

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, a real softie, sure.” His hand started moving again and Clint sighed happily. “For you, maybe.”

“Offer t’braid her hair on movie night, see how she reacts,” Clint advised. “Ten bucks says she’ll be the Natasha version of a puddle, and Steve’ll get jealous as all fuck.”

“Huh,” Bucky said. “Is that how it is?”

Clint nodded and yawned. “Yeah. Lookin’ back on it, pretty sure that’s at least half the reason he was _really _mad at me.”

“Cause he thought you were playing with my heart, when you already had Nat’s,” Bucky said slowly. “How the fuck did I miss _that?_”

Shrugging, Clint burrowed closer to Bucky, wincing when that shifted his broken leg too much. “Not like I was any quicker on the uptake when he was warning me t’stay away from you. I was so fuckin’ confused.”

“Damn self-righteous Rogers,” Bucky sighed. “He made your life pretty miserable there for a bit too. I should get him back for that.”

“Nah, he was just being a good bro. ‘Sides, I bet Nat’s got it handled.”

Bucky paused. “Oh. Oh, she’s gonna eat him alive.”

“Yup, but on the bright side,” Clint said, leering up at Bucky. “He might like it _and _he’ll leave us alone.”

“You sayin’ we shouldn’t warn him, doll?”

“Nope. Let him get what he deserves,” Clint said.

“I like the way you think,” Bucky grinned.

“Thanks, babe,” Clint said, grinning. He yawned again. “But enough talking. Sleep now?” He turned pleading eyes on Bucky and Bucky smiled down at Clint so softly it made Clint’s heart skip a beat.

Literally. He heard it on the monitor and everything.

He blushed.

Bucky’s soft smile became, if that was possible, even softer. But he gathered Clint in close, shifting him so that he lay more on top of Bucky then beside him, keeping his foot properly elevated and untwisting Clint’s body which, yeah, that _was _better, specially since Bucky still held him nice and tight.

And as Clint let himself fall completely under, he could swear Bucky lifted his aids out of his ears and dropped a kiss into his hair.

Oh yeah, definitely something more.

Eventually.

* * *

**Bonus Scene:**

Steve stared at Nat, who was blocking the way to Clint’s door, leaning on it casually, filing her nails. She hadn’t let anybody in except Bucky since Clint had been taken out of surgery.

“Look, I just want to check in on - “ Steve started. He was the team leader, and even if he wasn’t, Clint was a _friend_. Why did _Buck_ get to go in and not Steve?

She glanced up, quelling him with a single look. Behind Steve was ranged Tony, Sam and Bruce.

“You know what,” Tony said, edging backwards. “I think Pepper’s calling me…” Which absolutely wasn’t true, the traitor.

“I left an experiment on back in the lab,” Bruce muttered, already walking away. That… might actually be true, but Steve still felt betrayed by his departure. He looked at Sam, desperately, begging him not to leave.

Sam just grinned, clapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Good luck.”

Then walked away, leaving Steve with absolutely no backup while facing Nat.

“So, uh….” Steve said. He winced. Eloquent.

“You ever braid someone’s hair before?” She asked.

He blinked at the unexpected question. “Uh…. No?”

“Wanna learn?”


End file.
